Black Widow
by RosexDoctorForever
Summary: My name is Natasha Romanoff. When I was six I watched my parents die. When I was eight I was sold into slavery. Now, I am on a war path. I am after the people who killed my parents and tortured me. To do this, I can't be that same scared little girl. I must become someone else. I must become Black Widow.
1. Intro

Black Widow

My name is Natasha Romanoff. When I was six I watched my parents die. When I was eight I was sold into slavery. Now, I am on a war path. I am after the people who killed my parents and tortured me. To do this, I can't be that same scared little girl. I must become someone else. I must become Black Widow.


	2. Prologue

Prologue:

For a long time I had flinched away from the thought of blood. I remember being coated in the blood of my parents. Now I am consumed with the thought of the blood of their killers on my hands. As twisted as it is, I even dream about it. Soon it will be my time.

The goal of the Red Room was for you to forget your past. Forget your name. Forget that you are human. In their eyes, you aren't human. You have become something else entirely.

I don't remember everything. I have flashes of memories. Most are bad memories, such as the murder of my parents. Mostly I remember the feelings I had during those memories. Sometimes that can be stronger than having the full memory itself.

My parents had been killed when I was six years old. I was sold into slavery. A year later I was sold into the Red Room project. I don't know how long I've been here. I just remember waking up one day handcuffed to a bed surrounded by a bunch of other girls.

We were trained to be the perfect assassins. Out of every class at Red Room there could be only one survivor. I was in a class with twenty-four girls. I was the first to kill a classmate during one of the sparring matches after she showed a weakness by not going for a killer blow.

Despite being the first to kill, I struggled the most. Most of the girls were naturally flexible and could easily bend into positions to defeat their opponent. I struggled doing a high kick, much less a split. The instructors took aside the less flexible and broke their limbs into flexibility. My arms and legs have been broken more times that I can count on both hands. After months of going through this process as well as many others, I was just as flexible as any gymnast or ballerina in the world.

By the time I reached the age of ten, there were only three left in my class. Rebekah Gustoff was a tiny blonde thing with black eyes. Then there was Milah Costello who was originally an Italian girl. Lastly there was me, Natalia Romanova, Russian through and through. They kept us in separate rooms, thinking that we would slit each other's throats in the middle of the night. Perhaps we would, if we had been given the chance. Instead of forcing us to fight to the death, we were each given missions.

The thing about assassins is that they like to have a way to remember those that they have killed. Even at a young age, we liked to have trophies. Rebekah had started getting tattoos of stars on her body. In each star was the initials of her victims. They started on her arms and then inched their way down her torso. Milah enjoyed taking an item off of her victims. In the Red Room we didn't have any belongings, so she took a locket of hair from each girl she killed. I had begun making tally marks on my thighs. The silver scars covered most of my thighs, it was only a matter of time before I ran out of space.

I was thirteen when Milah had been taken into custody by the German government. She'd slipped up and gotten cocky. I was the one they had sent in to handle her. She was found dead in her cell before she'd seen a day in court. This left Rebekah and I as the lone victors of our class.

I was returning from a mission when the Red Room was infiltrated by soldiers. Everyone that was inside the building was taken into custody. I watched as Rebekah barely escaped, fighting her way out. We met up outside of the compound.

"We should find them, Natalia. We need to rescue them." she told me.

I shook my head. "We are free, Rebekah. We have survived the Red Room. Those men will kill us as soon as they get their hands on us."

That was when our alliance had truly begun. We were all each other had left. Together we started selling our services as assassins to those rich, powerful, and corrupt that didn't want to get their hands dirty.

We were created to adapt to our surroundings to survive. Together we spoke a grand total of eight languages. It didn't take long for us to realize that we could easily seduce our targets into getting them alone. The following morning they would be found murdered in their beds, leaving their wives widows. That's how we created a name for ourselves, Black Widows.


	3. Chapter 1

Chapter 1:

It was easy to get jobs. There is never a short supply of people who want to kill each other. Usually it was some rich man who wanted to get more money or power. Occasionally I would get a revenge kill, but that was once in a blue moon.

The killing was easy. I liked to switch it up every now and then. Sometimes I would poison them, other days I would strangle. Just to spice it up I would do a stab or a shooting. Once I was done, I would leave the bodies where they were. It was no longer my business once my prints were wiped clean.

The hardest part of it was luring in the victims. I had to watch them for a few days, see what they liked. It was tricky being exactly what they wanted. The different accents, wigs, outfits, everything had to be perfect or else they would've caught on.

Getting the victims in a vulnerable spot was the next step. After I got them alone, I would either have to go all the way or take the chance of them fighting back. Sleeping with them was usually short and quick. The men and sometimes women, I was sent to kill were usually out of shape or had places to be. I never finished. It just wasn't possible for me.

At the age of eighteen, I didn't consider myself to be human. By that time, I had repressed most human emotions to where I just simply existed. Killing didn't affect me, it hadn't in years. It was just a job that I did, and that I was quite frankly very good at. I was fed and clothed, that's all that mattered.

I had lost contact with Rebekah after a year of being separated. Every once in a while I would hear whispers of a blonde avenging angel. Other than that it was as if she didn't exist. Which on record, neither of us existed.

I didn't miss her. The Red Room had taken any feelings of want from us. We could survive fine without the contact of another human being. It was what we were created to do, survive.

My reputation had grown over the years. There was never a short supply of those who wanted to hire the Black Widow to do their biding. A few governments had tried to take me in as a prisoner, other government wanted to have me as their own personal killing machine. I worked for no one but myself.

It was a normal day at work for me. I was scouting a local high end bar, searching for new clients. The bar was known to house those who were willing to purchase my services. Most of my clients had come from here.

Scanning around the room I immediately saw the four potential clients. Two were sitting alone at the bar. The third was sitting in a booth. Then there was the last one. He stood in the balcony, staring down at the crowd.

I was instantly drawn to him. There was something about him that made me think that this isn't he first time he's hired someone to kill for him, unlike most of my newer clients who were first timers. All emotion was hidden from his face. His face. That was something else. He could be considered quite handsome. He was dressed in casual clothing. Maybe that's why he stood out. This club normally had everyone dressed nicely.

Making my way upstairs, I didn't take my eyes off of him. His brown hair stood up in every direction. Soft hazel eyes stared at me, trying to get a read on me. An eyebrow was raised in my direction, as if he was wondering why I took so long.

"What's a handsome man like you doing all alone?" I asked in English.

"How did you know that I speak English?" he asks me. His accent was easy to place. American. You don't get many Americans in this part of Russia.

"It's obvious you aren't Russian," I reply. "For one, if you were you would be wearing a suit in here not something so casual."

He gestured to his outfit. "What's wrong with the way I'm dressed?"

I laughed. "Your outfit is cheap."

He looked at my simple black dress. "And is your's not?"

"Let's just say, I had to kill for this dress." I say lightly, a small grin is on my face.

"Well, you fill it quite nicely." he responds.

"Thank you. You don't look to bad yourself, for a man who shows up in casual wear."

The man shrugs. His shirt moves up a little bit. Something catches my eye. It's not the small bit of skin that he had exposed but instead a small knife in the waistband of his pants. "I don't like suits. They're uncomfortable."

"And we wouldn't want you uncomfortable, now would we?" I stepped closer to him, breathing in his cologne. "Now tell me something. Who sent you?"

The man froze.

"American government?" I continued. "I'm surprised that they would want something with my skill set."

"I wasn't sent by any government," he says.

Staring into his eyes, I waited a moment before speaking. "Let me tell you something, you won't capture me. Better than you have tried."

"I wasn't sent to capture you."

I laughed. "Kill me then? Again, better than you have tried."

He went to grab me, but I stopped him by capturing his hands. He tried to break free of my grasp but was unable to.

I gave his lips a peck. "Now, now, why don't you buy a girl a drink before you try to kill her? That's what the others did."

"Not my style," he huffs.

"Well dying isn't mine," I reply, this time in Russian. "Until we meet again."

With a quick movement, I rush down the staircase. The man is hot on my heels. What the American does not grasp is that this is my home turf. I rush into the crowded streets of Russia. I move in to join a large group of people. When no one is paying attention, I pull off the black wig that I had been wearing. My red curls tumble out from their hiding spot. Carefully I steel a scarf off of a woman, wrapping at around myself.

I glance back, seeing that the American man has lost me. He raises his hand to his ear, contacting back with whoever had hired him I assume. From the look on his face I could tell that he was pissed that I had gotten away. Men don't like to lose.

"Until we meet again," I whisper before disappearing down an alleyway.


End file.
